


Triple Overtime

by Dusty_Forgotten



Series: Mike Schmidt is Done with Your Shit [3]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Gen, Horror, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 20:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2201937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mike Schmidt makes an important discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triple Overtime

**Author's Note:**

> If you've got ideas for these, do let me know.

You could just walk off the job. Seriously, you have your pink slip framed over your desk. Well, not right now, obviously, what with Bonnie to the left and a staring contest with the glare off Freddy’s eyes in the dining room. Foxy’s especially shy tonight, and you’re out of coffee. Maybe you just won’t come in tomorrow.

Oh, but of course you will, because now you’ve got to be a smartass since your therapist told you to quit. You’ll ruin your mental stability if you want to! Take that, bitch! Speaking of bitches, Chica’s at the door. You shut it and glare at her. She just stares. “Hey.” you mutter with a nod. “Come here often?” She disappears, and you roll your eyes. Both Chica and your therapist can fuck right off, you think, as you find Bonnie gone and let the door open. She’s probably been gone for a while. You’re off your game tonight, daydreaming. Can’t afford that on a night with Freddy and- OH SHIT PIRATE COVE’S EMPTY! Foxy gets a paw under the door as it shuts, and he scratches at it. You wonder if you can open it to let him out... But decide against it. Foxy’s hated you (more than he generally hates security guards which, _yes_ , is _very_ possible) since you dug that leftover frontal lobe out from between his teeth. You don’t really want to think about why he wanted it.

He manages to yank his paw out, though just the robotic bit, leaving the fur cover, and sprints back to his little lair. You wonder if the paw itself is any sort of danger. Eh... You hope not.

You’re low on power. Honestly, when aren’t you, but tonight is one of those nights when you think the best course of action is just to sit back a few minutes and let time tick on without obsessively flicking lights and camera feeds. You’ve got a habit of that, now. When you enter a room you flick the lights a few times, you look left and right every few minutes for no reason at all. Maybe you _should_ quit.

And prove your mother right? NEVER! You check the hallways, try to locate Freddy, and cycle to Pirate Cove a few times. You are a night security guard for Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, goddammit, and you are _damn_ good at your job. Why quit?

Some sane part of your mind has a list of reasons nearing the triple digits, but you never listen to anything he has to say, so why start now? Then again, you don’t actually know what you’d do if someone tried to break in. Why anyone would is beyond you. You’d probably have to leave them to the animatronics, watch on the cameras to make sure they got the job done. Bleach it in the morning.

Ten percent. Four am. You’re not gonna make it, not with Freddy this active, not with Foxy eyeing you from behind his curtain. What if you don’t make it? What if you get stuffed into one of those costumes next to your boss? That... actually isn’t all that terrifying anymore. This job has really screwed with your sense of fear.

Four-twenty (BLAZE IT). Eight percent. You’re not gonna make it. You’re really not gonna make it this time. After a month and a half, this job is finally going to kill you. You should have quit. You should have taken your pink slip and walked, the only person to survive a week of the night shift at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. But you wouldn’t. You know that. You’d never quit, because you knew it would kill you. You’re some twenty-something chump who never went to college and lives with his Alzheimer's-demented mother. This job is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to you.

Four-thirty. Six percent. You set the tablet under your chair, flick the left, right lights, and look at your desk- the poster, the cup of office supplies, the pink slip, the box tucked next to the speakers. Wait. The box next to the speakers. Emergency box. You check your watch. Four-forty. Four percent. Fuck it. You hit both the doors shut and drag out the box. If you’re gonna die, you’re going in style.

Two percent. You can see Chica through the dim of that single light bulb above your desk, can hear Bonnie on the other side. Freddy must be waiting. You slip the last piece over your head and sit on your desk, waiting. One percent. “Come on, you sick fucks.” you murmur as the lights go out. “Do your worst.”

Bonnie steps lightly into the office, her eyes lighting up as she starts the song. You want to close your eyes, but don’t. Chica creeps lightly in. Of course, Freddy’s impatient, he grabs you on the arm, and you glare him in the animatronic eye as he stares. Just stares. He’s not dragging you. Bonnie stops her music box theme music halfway through. The fan on your desk is off. Silence.

Freddy taps you on the forehead. You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t cry. You don’t blink. He lowers his head, looks you over, lets go of your arm. He’s trying to figure it out. Holy hell, is it actually working!? Bonnie rotates her head slightly, and walks away. Chica blinks, and follows. Freddy steps back, but stays staring. You wish you could check your watch- another obsessive habit of yours, but for good reason, here- but the giant arm of the costume makes it impossible.

You bought the mascot costume from a thrift shop about a week ago when you saw it was going for dirt cheap. It’s a full-body suit, some weird tiger from the high school that closed up the street. It stinks like teenage boys that wore it, is ripped in places, and hot as all hell, but Freddy just stares, and you try really hard not to piss yourself because if this works, you’re keeping it around. Freddy stares. Behind the mesh eyes, you stare back.

City power comes on. Freddy stares, and stares, and his head glitches, and he walks out the door. You pull off the fluffy head and cry like a baby. They want to stuff you in a costume, huh!? Give them one that won’t kill you! Holy hell, why didn’t you think of this sooner!?

**Author's Note:**

> LET IT BE KNOWN THIS WAS POSTED BEFORE THE FNAF 2 PREVIEW FUCK YEAH I SAW THAT SHIT COMING


End file.
